


Head Held High Come Dawn

by Nathalaia



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: 93 percent of this was written at work, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Crown Prince Yixing, Fantasy, Historical, I fail at time limits and I'm sorry, M/M, Not Beta'ed sob, Royalty, Same goes for the description, Slave junmyeon, Some dark topics in the background?, Thanks COVID-19, Title subject to change if mods allow it, Violence, WIP, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27809332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nathalaia/pseuds/Nathalaia
Summary: He will take their secret to the grave.
Relationships: Kim Junmyeon | Suho/Zhang Yi Xing | Lay
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17
Collections: Round 1 of Tales of the Lotus Fest





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> 1: For Prompter (and anyone else interested): I will leave the number of the prompt at the bottom of second chapter for fear of spoilers. For now, know that I took a lot of creative liberties with your prompt, but I hope it will still satisfy you!
> 
> 2: I was unable to finish this fic in time, which is why you get the first two chapters. I want to give the end the attention it deserves instead of hurrying it, besides, without a set timeframe, I will probably be able to include the *actual* part of the idea I had imagined upon snatching this prompt, lol. I will have more explanations in the end!
> 
> Enjoy <3

He opened his eyes slowly, aware that he would find himself somewhere foreign.

The fog hung thickly in the air around him, so thick he could see barely a stone throw ahead. Drooping willow trees overlooking the grey water stood along the shore of the lake; snowdrops clustered around the tree bases and spread in swirly patterns into the dewy grass.

He felt neither cold nor warm, and there was no wind despite the gently swaying branches. It was strange, could have been frightening, but he felt only a soothing calm wash over him as he looked across the lake.

He knew without the shadow of doubt that he was in another plane of existence because he distinctly remembered falling asleep just a little while ago. He could be dreaming, but it felt entirely too vivid for a mere dream; perhaps something otherworldly, then? The more he thought about it, the more he looked, the more he _felt_ – the less this seemed like a place for a mortal such as himself.

Who, or perhaps more aptly _what_ , had called him here?

A gentle breeze tugged at his hair, and a voice murmured into his ear, “ _You catch on fast._ ”

He dropped to his knees immediately, his forehead pressing against the grass and his hands gathered in front of him in a prayer. The breeze passed him once more, this time bringing with it a tinkle of laughter.

“ _You may stand, child._ ”

He rose slowly from his crouch, never taking his eyes off the lake, and said, “You summoned me here?”

The breeze surrounded him. “ _I did._ ” It touched his face. “ _I helped you once. Now I have come to collect what you owe me._ ”

His eyes slipped closed, and he nodded. “What must I do?”

The memories of him and his sister getting comfortable in their beds came to mind. He heard the ghost of his mother’s voice bringing to life the bedtime stories she told them of heroes and fabled creatures, and of the old gods.

He was an adult by the time he fully grasped the hidden warnings of the stories, but by then it had already been far too late.

“ _I am sending you away._ ”

He remained silent; waiting. In the stories, the gods were never straightforward with their intentions. 

“ _I will help you on the right path, but it is up to you to go in the right direction._ ”

“Where must I go?”

“ _Lián._ ”

That was a daunting prospect. He frowned. “We are at war.”

A sigh so heavy he felt it in his bones sounded off to his side; the willow trees seemed to almost sigh along. “ _The wars will come to an end, but the peace will not last if no one takes a stand._ ”

“You want _me_ to stop _the wars_?”

“ _Your role is to nudge the pieces. Your fate awaits you in Lián, and he needs your intervention. You must steer him on the right path, as I will steer you._ ”

He implored, “Tell me what that path _is_ , or I stand no chance!”

“ _You will know what to do when the time is right, child_.”

He opened his mouth to say more, but found there were no words to say. The world was fading from sight, and he resigned himself to the will of the god.

He had known from the start not to strike a deal with a deity, and yet he had done it anyway.

-

The two servants at the doors startled at the sight of the first prince rounding the corner and, upon realising the warpath he was on, scrambled to move the heavy oak doors aside so he could pass through unhindered.

Junmyeon trailed behind the prince in a much calmer manner, which assuaged the servants’ concerns some: If the prince’s esteemed slave was around, chances were Junmyeon would talk him down before he made too big of a mess of his quarters. Tidying up after one of his outbursts was a tedious task, but more nerve-wracking were the noises of ceramics breaking when he threw them at the walls in his anger. 

The prince was and had always been such a caring person, but the Assault at Jade Palace had changed him. It had been subtle at first, hard to gleam at a single glance, but the Imperial Palace had witnessed the quiet princeling adored by everyone steadily growing into a vocal opposition to the emperor. 

The servants sympathised with the prince, but they could do little to help him when his frustrations were with his own father. 

Junmyeon lingered outside long enough to spare them a wan smile. “The prince is in a poor mood this evening. Kindly fetch some of that red tea he favours and leave it outside. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Yes,” the two servants said in unison and just barely resisted the urge to bow as they did; a slave was lower than a servant, and yet they couldn’t remember a time when Junmyeon had ever had the presence of one.

As the servants went to fetch the tea, Junmyeon calmly closed the doors to the background noise of something – likely one of the expensive ceramic ornaments by the sound of it – shattering against one of the farthest walls. 

Yixing could feel a migraine coming, the throbbing centred right in his forehead. He sighed through his nose and leaned across the desk with his hands flat on the mahogany, eyes shut tight. This feeling of powerlessness as his father _refused_ to listen to him – it drove him up a wall each and every time. It was aggravating (and insulting) to have the title of heir and still be treated like a child at his age.

Meetings with his father were life draining, and the headache was not improving in the slightest.

“Do you still feel inclined to break expensive porcelain?”

“Shut your mouth,” Yixing said, albeit it held not even the slightest hint of a threat. “I am as calm as the pond in my courtyard.”

“Certainly,” Junmyeon said. “As calm as the pond in your courtyard is during a vicious storm.”

Yixing glowered at him, but it was not particularly satisfying when Junmyeon merely met his glare with a cool stare. He arched an eyebrow perhaps a minute into their staring contest, and only then did Yixing close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose.

“All right,” he conceded. “I am not _calm_ in the strictest sense, but you have my word that no more vases shall fall victim to my ire tonight.”

Junmyeon dipped his chin. “That will do.”

Yixing’s private study had walls painted in various scenes of nature, wooden flooring, expensive mahogany furniture, extravagant pieces of art, porcelain and other ceramics that sometimes suffered unfortunate fates, and comfy padded seats. 

It was one of those comfy padded seats that Yixing plopped down on. He threw an arm over his face to appear as miserable as possible, and heaved another sigh. “Junmyeon. My dearest Junmyeon – I worry my father shall drive me insane.”

“Nonsense,” Junmyeon said, ever sympathetic. Yixing uttered a pitiful noise at the back of his throat.

Junmyeon left the study and returned shortly after carrying a silver tray. On it was a steaming teapot and a porcelain cup, and a plate with a small variety of the chewy rice cakes that Yixing enjoyed so much with his tea. Junmyeon had never taken a liking to them.

He arranged the items on the table next to Yixing and discarded the tray afterwards. Yixing tried to sneak one of the cakes, but Junmyeon slapped away his hand.

“Allow the tea to steep.”

Yixing sulked. “Why is there only one cup? I do not want to drink tea alone. Find one and sit down with me.”

Junmyeon went to procure a cup from one of the cupboards and then returned to take a seat opposite of Yixing. He folded his hands in his lap and levelled Yixing with an even stare. 

“What did your father do to upset you this time?”

Yixing groaned. “It is not a matter of what he did, but what he might _do_ .” He sat up straight on the couch and ran his hands down his face. “The day he signed the peace treaty is a national day for celebration, and yet all he can think of and all he can talk about is _war_. Have we not had enough?”

He swung his arm out in frustration, mindful of the porcelain on the table, and said, voice raising in volume after each word, “ _Four years_ , Junmyeon. He signed it _four years_ ago, and he is already scheming. As if that’s not enough –!”

He got to his feet, far too restless to sit still as he vented, and began pacing the room while Junmyeon stayed seated. “He is thinking about having Zitao accompany General Weishan. _Zitao_! Watcher’s bones, my brother has never held a sword in his life, nor has he ever been in a position where he had to fight! Father is well aware of this, and yet he is considering sending Zitao to _war_.”

“He could die,” Junmyeon said.

“Yes! I told Father this, but he said Zitao would never have to leave General Weishan’s side. He said he just wants Zitao to experience the heat of battle without ever being at risk.” He resisted the urge to kick the desk, well aware it would do more harm to himself than to it. He desperately needed an outlet, but he had promised not to break anything else. “Father refuses to face that we will never be the warmonger _he_ is. Zitao is perfectly content in his tower surveying the vast unknown that is the celestial body. He should never have to don armour or take to arms. I will _not_ allow Father to do this to him.”

“There is time to change his mind,” Junmyeon said. “He signed a peace treaty where he vowed to withdraw his armies and leave their territories untouched for at least five years.”

“That gives him a year to lay down strategies,” Yixing said. “Provided that he intends to uphold the treaty. He does not inspire much faith in that regard.”

“What of General Weishan? Did he have anything to say to this?”

“Yifan swears to me that General Weishan means well and disapproves of my father’s decisions, but orders are orders. He will take Zitao to war if that is what my father wants.”

“Hmm.” Junmyeon leaned forward to pour tea into their cups. “Come and sit down. Does Zitao know?”

“I doubt Father has had the opportunity to mention it,” Yixing said dryly as he returned to the couch. The tea was still much too hot to drink, so he sat back and crossed his arms as he contemplated. “Zitao will surely beg him to change his mind, but if Father cannot be swayed, Zitao will do as told to please him.”

“I wonder,” Junmyeon murmured, “why it must be Zitao. As the first son, ought it not be you?”

Yixing pursed his lips and squinted at the tea. “It could be a ploy,” he said. “He hates that I am no longer the docile son he wanted. Perhaps his intention is to use Zitao to make me comply.”

“Perhaps,” Junmyeon said. “Have you considered the possibility of him naming your brother his official heir to spite you?”

Yixing offered a stiff nod. “I have, and I do not think he will. He would never dream of naming Xiaoqing or Xiaodan his heir, and between Zitao and me, I am the best choice. He hates that, too, but I know he is too smart to not realise the truth of it.”

“You are more inclined to believe it is a thinly veiled threat, then,” Junmyeon said. Yixing nodded again. “What will you do?”

Yixing snatched one of the cakes off the plate, ignored Junmyeon’s disapproving look, and bit into it. It was as delicious as ever, but he could not fully enjoy it when he knew his father was plotting another war. 

“I refuse to bend.”

Junmyeon had been a birthday gift from one of the generals who had returned victorious from battle at one of the borders between them and the Kingdom of Mogryeon. To that day Yixing had rejected all offers of slaves he had received, and he had had every intention of also rejecting Junmyeon, well aware that the general hoped to buy his way into their good graces – but his father had silenced him with a stern look before he had had the chance to do so. 

The general spun a grand tale of how they had chased Junmyeon through rough terrains during a dreadful downpour and finally caught up with him right when he had been about to jump off a cliff and into the lashing river far below. 

“My curiosity knows no bounds,” Jianjun said. “Do tell, General, why you would give my son such a troublesome slave.”

“He is demure as a flower now, Emperor, you have my word,” the general said and gestured to the young man kneeling at his side, head bowed and hands cuffed in front of him. “He speaks not a word of our language, but he has proven to be a fast learner and perfectly capable of doing manual labour.”

Jianjun hummed and waved a hand. “Fine. If he acts out of line, my son will see to it that he is dealt with swiftly.”

Yixing tasted bile as he looked at his new slave, loath to hurt another human who had been captured by the enemy, possibly endured torture in an effort to break his spirit, and now faced a future as a slave of the very son of the man who was to blame for these wars.

“Yixing,” his father said lowly, “accept your gift.”

Yixing forced himself to move. “General,” he said and stepped off the dais, “I thank you for your thoughtfulness on my twentieth birthday. It is clear to me that much care went into choosing this slave for me, and for that I am grateful.”

“First Prince, it is _I_ who am grateful,” the general said and bowed deeply as Yixing came to stand before him. “I hope this gift will serve you well.”

“Certainly, General,” Yixing said and accepted the bulky chain he was offered. It connected to an iron collar around his slave’s throat, and though it made Yixing sick to do so, he tugged at it and waited for the man to stumble to his feet. 

“I wish to discuss in private with the general his success at the border,” Jianjun said. “You may take your leave, Yixing. Have your new slave prepared for the celebrations this evening.”

Yixing didn’t know how to _prepare_ a slave who did not speak their language, least of all what his father expected, but he bowed and left for his quarters with the man trailing after him like a shadow on a chain. 

In his study, Yixing gave his new slave a scrutinising look. 

He had a lean, solid build and appeared newly scrubbed with short dark hair that still obscured the upper part of his face from Yixing’s scrutiny. The rags he wore could hardly be considered _clothes_ by any standards. He seemed largely unharmed save a few scrapes around his face and inflamed skin where the cuffs and the collar bit into flesh.

“Slave,” Yixing said, “look at me.”

Junmyeon stayed rooted in his spot, eyes downcast, so Yixing closed the gap between them to lightly grip Junmyeon by the chin and tip his head upwards. Fiery brown eyes stared into his very soul, and Yixing’s brows pulled into a frown.

This was no broken spirit. 

“I am Yixing,” he said, releasing Junmyeon to point at himself. “Yixing. _Yi. Xing_.” He pointed at Junmyeon and arched a brow in question.

Junmyeon’s eyes lit up in understanding, and he said in a voice that had to come from a bruised throat, “Junmyeon.”

Yixing nodded. “Junmyeon.” He earned a pair of narrowed eyes, so he tried again, recalling the sound of the vowels and consonants that had rolled off Junmyeon’s tongue so smoothly, “ _Junmyeon_.” 

Junmyeon said something in his own language that Yixing didn’t understand, which made him wish more than ever that his father had allowed him lessons in foreign languages instead of insisting he needed only speak their own and to rely on interpreters to translate for him. The glint of approval in Junmyeon’s eyes at least led Yixing to believe he had successfully pronounced his name.

“As First Prince, I consider it my duty to have someone teach you our language,” Yixing said, more to himself than to Junmyeon. “After all, I do not suppose I will have much use of you until you can understand the orders I give.”

Junmyeon was back to staring at him in a way that no mere slave should have stared at his master, not to mention his prince, or anyone at all. Were they still in the throne room in the presence of his father, Yixing would have had no choice but to punish Junmyeon for this blatant disregard of respect and obedience. 

In the privacy of his study, Yixing schooled his expression into something more gentle and said, “You have my word that no harm shall come to you if I can help it.”

Still, Yixing was no fool: A man who had been hauled from his homeland and forced to submit to his enemy, and yet still retained such fire in his eyes, was not someone Yixing could afford to underestimate. Such a man might very well prefer death over a life of slavery, and a man with nothing to lose was a dangerous man indeed. 

If Junmyeon harboured even the slightest murderous intent, Yixing needed to find out so he didn’t end his days at his hand. 

That was then. 

Yixing had come to regard Junmyeon as the one stable in his life, the only person he trusted with all his being. 

He loved his brother and he loved his sisters and he loved the second empress, he loved Yifan and he loved Han, and he _trusted_ them – but they would and could never be Junmyeon. 

Zitao did not quite _love_ their father, but he was filial when required and would do as asked without kicking up much of a fuss. Xiaoqing and Xiaodan were still children, Xiaodan not even of marrying age, and Xifeng took great care to never be at the Imperial Palace for longer than was necessary due to her hatred of Jianjun and the wish to protect the girls from him. 

Yifan was goodhearted and studious where Han had always been blunt and sarcastic, but they were his best friends. 

And as he watched Junmyeon sip at the tea, observed the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed, he yearned to touch, to taste, to feel – to have and to hold and to own. Junmyeon didn’t seem to realise that there was a void in Yixing’s ribcage where his heart should have been because Junmyeon held it in his hands. 

A year after Junmyeon became a fixed presence around Yixing, the rumours of him being a eunuch first stirred and spread like a wildfire. Junmyeon had never bothered to correct them, and while a few other servants swore by the Watcher that Junmyeon was well-endowed, Yixing had still overheard a pair of maids whisper about it not two days ago. 

Junmyeon was most definitely not a eunuch. Yixing did not think there was any part of Junmyeon’s body he had not mapped down in his mind; that the rumours even came to _exist_ was practically laughable with how few scruples Junmyeon had about disrobing in front of someone. 

And still – _still_ Yixing knew of every scar that adorned Junmyeon’s skin; every mole, every freckle, every little imperfection. He knew Junmyeon liked to keep himself clean and neatly shaved everywhere except sometimes his legs. He knew how Junmyeon’s cock looked in every state between flaccid and solid, could roughly estimate its girth and length, knew which side it favoured – but he didn’t know what expressions might pass across Junmyeon’s face in the throes of passion.

He had never touched his skin beyond the semi-accidental brush of a hand.

But oh, how he _wanted_ to.

If only Junmyeon were not so unflappable. The man might as well be related to a rock and it frustrated Yixing to no end when his advances were met by blank looks or a pat on the shoulder.

Junmyeon was either dense or disinterested, and while it was the cause of many a lonely night with just his own hands and fantasies to keep him company, Yixing prayed it was the former and not the latter that was to blame for his suffering.

“You are staring,” Junmyeon said. “You have been for a while.”

Yixing crossed his legs to hide the situation between them and bent forward slightly. He hummed. “I was wondering if you might ever change your mind about the rice cakes.”

“I would rather die,” Junmyeon said, voice as even as ever, “than try another bite.”

“I thought as much,” Yixing said. “I suppose I should be thrilled. More for me.”

There was only one cake left on the plate, so he snatched it.

He deserved that cake.

Growth had touched the empire before Junmyeon had raised a stolen dagger to Yixing’s throat. The steel had scarcely nicked Yixing’s skin before Yixing had shoved him to the floor and pinned him to it with his own weight, the dagger kicked out of his hand and safely out of reach.

“Spilling a prince’s blood is a death sentence,” Yixing hissed, breath fanning across Junmyeon’s resentful face. “Is that truly what you want?”

“I will not live the rest of my days as my enemy’s property,” Junmyeon spat, pronunciation still slightly off in places but otherwise perfectly clear. Despite the general’s questionable judgement in giving Yixing such a volatile slave, he at least had been right about Junmyeon’s intellect. 

“I am not my father,” Yixing said. It had not been the first time he uttered those words, and it would not be the last. “I will never _be_ my father. Once I am emperor, these wars will cease. I want _peace_.”

Junmyeon narrowed his eyes at him. “People like you will never settle for peace,” he said and spat at Yixing’s face; the blob of saliva landed on Yixing’s cheekbone, which rendered him momentarily speechless with astonishment as Junmyeon continued undeterred, “ _Your_ blood is precious, but everyone else’s is not? That’s absurd. We were all born equal.”

Yixing should have called for the guards to take Junmyeon away to be executed, or reached for the dagger to slit his throat himself – but, sometimes, he dared believe in the good in people, and in the best in himself. 

(He needed _someone_ to see that he was more than the quiet prince who bowed his head to his father’s every wish and command.)

Perhaps he was a fool after all.

“Stay by my side and let me prove it to you,” Yixing said. “I will be an emperor more benevolent and kind than my father; I will not leave my people to suffer under a senseless war or be the cause of others’ grief. I swear this by the Watcher: May He strike me down if I fail.”

“You swear to a god that means nothing to me,” Junmyeon said, but the look in his eyes was wary in a way it hadn’t been before. 

“Then I will bare my chest to you,” Yixing said, “and let you wield the blade that pierces my heart if I lie.”

The silence lasted for a while, but then Junmyeon heaved a sigh and dropped his head on the floor, the fight seeping out of his body. “Very well, Prince. Show me your benevolence.”

And Yixing had not given much thought to it then, and would not give much thought to it until several years down the line – but with Junmyeon pliable under him, long lashes stark against his pale blizzard skin, Yixing had felt something stirring within him and instinctively held his wrists tighter.

“I promise.”

-

The Wars, or the Dark Years as certain corners of the empire were prone to call it by in derisive tones, lasted sixteen years before the peace treaty was signed at a formal assembly during year four-hundred-and-nine of the Zhang Dynasty in harvest, Fairday of the third week, by the respective leaders of Mogryeon, Málí, Asagao, Mei, and Lián. 

The actual death toll of the Wars in Lián remained unknown due to the lack of administration in the smaller towns, particularly the ones near the borders, but nearly a year into the peace treaty an estimate of twenty-six-thousand civilian and forty-seven-thousand military lives became the official numbers with possibly several thousands more unaccounted for.

So many lives lost in a senseless war, and _still_ his father could not be content with what he had obtained.

“Our spies in Málí inform us that the queen is sickly,” one of the men assembled in the council chamber said. Yixing knew he was one of the more prominent members in his father’s network of spies, but the name evaded him. “The king’s people are working hard to shut down any rumours, but still we have picked up some regarding the boy she recently gave birth to. They say the babe has some deformity that may make him unfit in the role of heir.”

Jianjun stroked his beard thoughtfully and hummed. “Sickly, you say. Will she survive?”

“The royal doctors are optimistic,” the man said and shrugged. “Complications, however, are not uncommon so soon after birth…” The way he trailed off left little doubt as to what he was suggesting. Yixing’s blood boiled.

Jianjun, however, was nodding slowly to himself. “Should the queen suffer such an unfortunate fate, the king will be in a precarious position. If the rumours as to his son have a grain of truth, it could be a very precarious position indeed.”

“Emperor,” another man called, “an heirless king would cause uncertainty amongst his people, especially during times of war. His son has not seen his first moon yet. Babes born with defects are often more prone to ailment than healthy ones. Should this boy die within a few months, if executed carefully, chances are no one will think it unnatural. Some might say it was divine –”

Yixing slammed his hand down on the table and turned a glare at the man who had dared speak such vile words. “Absolutely _not_.”

“ _Quiet_ , boy,” Jianjun ordered. “Stand down.”

“Will you stop at nothing?” Yixing demanded, glaring first at his father and then around the table. “Not only are you plotting the murder of a queen – you are also giving serious thought to causing an innocent child’s death! An emissary from Málí is a _guest_ at our palace. Emperor, I _implore_ you to have some consideration for our struggling neighbours.”

“Yixing,” Jianjun said, staring at Yixing until he sank back down onto his seat, “you will listen quietly and speak up only if you have something useful to share. Am I understood?”

Yixing’s mouth thinned and he bit out a bitter, “Yes.”

“Marvellous. Now,” Jianjun gestured at the man whom Yixing had interrupted, “please, Lord Qingsheng, proceed. I apologise for the first prince’s insolence.”

“Not at all, Emperor,” the man said and dipped his head. “I understand the prince’s qualms, but for the sake of our empire I believe it is a proposal worthy of your consideration.”

“Indeed, my lord,” Jianjun said. “Jiaolong, are the spies in any position to administer poison to the queen and her child?”

“Not at the moment,” Jiaolong said, “but I believe they can be before the first week of wither. Please understand that it will require time and careful planning to get them in a position that will not incriminate them.”

“Pray tell, then,” Yixing spat, “what might happen if the Málí emissary catches wind of this and informs his regnants. It would be a disaster.”

Jiaolong met Yixing’s glare and lifted an eyebrow. He even had the audacity to smile wanly as he said, “Why, you assume the emissary will get away with his life if such… delicate knowledge should come into his possession.”

Yixing massaged his temples and said through clenched teeth, “The Málí rulers would not send a dimwitted emissary to us in these times. He is as much a spy as he is a political pawn, and any spy worth his position has enough wits to not let on that he has acquired _delicate knowledge._ If he hears of your intentions, he will get the information to his regnants without you knowing.”

Jiaolong hummed. He was a brusque man with a long beard and unusual grey eyes with little empathy left in them; Yixing hated him. “First Prince, are you recommending we get rid of this emissary before he can become a problem?”

“Do not mock me,” Yixing hissed. “An emissary who disappears without a trace from his position on foreign soil will raise questions, and those questions will turn into accusations.”

Jiaolong offered a shrug. “An unfortunate accident, then. A passionate affair with someone below his station. Perhaps a jealous mistress?” He rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward, the corner of his mouth tilted upwards. “Blizzard always demands lives, does it not? He could catch his death on the way back from a nice evening out.”

“The way you take for granted human life ought to bar you from this position,” Yixing said. “What this empire needs from its council are men of level minds and empathy. Not _you_.”

“Council,” Jianjun cut in, “I believe it is in everyone’s best interest that I postpone this assembly until further notice. I need to have words with the first prince in private.”

“Of course, Emperor,” Jiaolong said and stood from his seat. The other members of the council followed his lead, murmuring their understanding and thanking Jianjun for his time. Yixing stayed in his seat and eyed the men with contempt as they slipped out one by one.

“Yixing,” Jianjun said once they were alone. “I allow you in these meetings because I deem it an important step in preparing you for the role of emperor. I _will not_ sit idly by as you disrespect and insult the noble men of my council.”

Yixing gritted his teeth and said, “And _I_ will not sit idly by as you lot plot to murder everyone standing in your way. When will enough be enough? _You_ are to blame for so much despair and hatred!”

Jianjun sighed. “You used to be so obedient. Why do you insist on this nonsense?”

Yixing sprung from the chair and crossed his arms as he stared hard at his father. “Your wars took away my mother and Zhilan, just as they took away the loved ones of your enemies – of your own _people_. Does that not touch you at all?”

“ _Our_ wars, boy,” Jianjun said and moved to stand in front of Yixing. “This is your birthright; our legacy. And you would throw all of that away for a misled fantasy of _peace?_ ”

Jianjun was not much taller than Yixing himself – that he was taller at all irked Yixing each time they were face to face such as this time – but carried himself with an imposing presence and authority, the vibrant red fabrics of his garments combined with gold embroidery and the finest jewellery of jades and rubies a testament to his station and might. He had a habit of stroking his beard whenever he was deep in thoughts and preferred his hair in a ponytail at the top of his head to keep it out of his face.

His nearly-black eyes were steely as he looked down at Yixing. “War demands sacrifice.” He briefly closed his eyes, the stern expression on his face slackening some. “Xuilan and Zhilan’s deaths were regrettable. Had I been in a position to save them, I would have – but Xiulan understood what it takes to be at war. She never once wavered from my side. So why do _you_?”

“These wars will tear our empire apart!” Why did he refuse to _see_ that?

The disappointment in Jianjun’s gaze would have sent Zitao away with his tail between his legs, but Yixing would not bend. 

“No, boy,” Jianjun said quietly. “It seems you are yet too young to understand. I thought I had taught you better. These wars are what will secure your children and their futures; their grandchildren, their great-grandchildren – _all of them_ will get to lead comfortable lives because of our actions _now_. Everyone must recognise the might of our empire.”

“Father, everyone already _does_!” Yixing implored, desperate, “Everyone knows these past years of precarious peace is for our sake rather than theirs. This is for our people to relax and rebuild what has been lost, but your enemies cannot breathe. They know you signed the peace treaty for show rather than any real intent on upholding it.”

“Nonsense.” Jianjun scoffed. “I shall keep my word and uphold the treaty for the five years they begged for.”

“That is just it, isn’t it? _Five years_.” He wanted to pull out his hair, so he fisted his hands to keep them still. “That’s a laughable number. _Five years_ is not enough time for them to recuperate in the wake of the wars; it is not nearly enough time to restore their cities or mourn the deaths of their people. Formally you signed a peace treaty, but you may as well have signed their undoing.”

“I showed them _mercy_ , Yixing,” Jianjun said, and the amusement in the shadow of a smile and the haughty look in his eyes made Yixing furious. “They came to me begging for peace, for time, and I gave it to them. What awaits them once the treaty reaches its last days, well.” He shrugged. “If they are wise, they will cede before they lose whatever they have left.”

“These people you are toying with are _human beings_!” Yixing cried. “They are terrified of what awaits them on the other side of the treaty because you took away _everything_ from them!”

“Enough!” Jianjun slammed his hands down on the table. Yixing flinched. “That is the future that awaits _your_ children if you do not grow up and instead allow all that I have worked for to slip between your fingers. It is them or us.”

“Why?” Yixing asked. “ _Why_? Why can it not be all of us? Why must there be a divide?”

“Peace is not an option, boy,” Jianjun said harshly. “Everyone covets power. If _you_ do not take it, someone else will, and then you will find yourself submitting to them or relinquishing your life.”

He stepped forward, crowding Yixing as he grabbed him by the shoulders hard enough to bruise. Yixing winced but did not move away. “This empire was built on blood and ashe. If you truly believe that your utopian fantasies could ever truly become reality, then you are unfit to rule. Your brother may be too taken by the unreachable in the sky, but mark my words, I will name another heir if you do not cease this nonsense. It has gone on for far too long, and I will hear no more of it!”

“I just want you to _listen_ to me for once,” Yixing said. “Our control over our new territories is dangerously close to slipping in places because famine and illness rages after our armies burned down the fields and their homes to force them into surrender. We should be funding the restorations of our capital instead of the army and _help_ our new territories settle under your rule. We have more than enough coin in the royal treasure to –”

“I already installed lords in those areas to help assure our control,” Jianjun cut in. “They will punish everyone foolish enough to revolt and hang them out to serve as a warning for anyone else with such treacherous notions.”

“ _No_ ,” Yixing groaned. “We should not punish violence with more violence. Fear will _never_ beat loyalty. If we teach these people to fear us, they will never truly be ours. We must show them compassion and understanding – that is the only way to gain their fealty.”

“If we show them the slightest weakness, they will pounce on it,” Jianjun said. “They will rip us apart if we do not teach them their place.”

“Father,” Yixing said, but Jianjun forcefully released his shoulders.

“No. No more.” He straightened his back and looked at Yixing. “I am rescinding your invitation to the council for the rest of the month. You have until last Fairday to prove to me that you deserve a seat in the meetings or you will be barred from partaking until next year.”

Yixing hardly felt the sting of his nails boring into his palms as he said, “I am your _heir_. It is within my rights to partake in those meetings!” 

“And now I revoke those rights,” Jianjun said coolly. “Careful, Yixing. You are testing my patience as it is. Spend your newly-acquired idleness wisely. I eagerly await hearing why you think I should allow you back.”

Yixing, fearing he would strike out at his father in anger if he stayed any longer, turned on his heels and stormed off.

-

Junmyeon was nowhere to be found, so Yixing left to find his brother. He desperately needed someone to vent to, and his second choice was split between Yifan, Han, and Zitao. As it just so happened, Yifan was away visiting his mother at their family estate to celebrate his twenty-eighth birthday, and Yixing hadn’t seen the shadow of Han since Moonday. That left him with Zitao, who would almost certainly be in his tower.

One of Zitao’s attendants greeted Yixing upon arrival and accompanied him inside and up the many flights of stairs. The walk through the numerous hallways and courtyards had cooled Yixing’s head enough to not scare away the servant, so he listened with half an ear as the girl excitedly told him about Zitao’s latest observations and theories. It was endearing to see someone as enthusiastic about Zitao’s work as Zitao himself, and Yixing tried to smile and seem attentive, but the council meeting weighed heavily on his mind as well as the threat of his brother being sent to war.

“Ah!” The girl cut herself off mid-chatter as they finally found Zitao. “Prince Zitao, First Prince Yixing is here to see you.”

Zitao’s quarters were closer to Yixing’s own, but he spent most of the time at the tower. The room they were in, one Yixing had come to recognise as Zitao’s study outside his own quarters, had walls of brick with maps and parchments filled with messy scrawls that reeked of Zitao’s handwriting fastened to them at seemingly random, or at least it appeared that way to Yixing’s inexperienced eyes. The flooring was made of smoother brick and covered by rugs.

Surrounding the desk Zitao was sitting at – and as a matter of fact also obscuring a good portion of the floor – were books and parchments, and instruments and tools half of which Yixing had never seen before and couldn’t even begin to guess the purpose of. 

Zitao looked up from whatever he was poring over and lit up in a smile at the sight of Yixing. He left the desk to greet Yixing with a hug. “Brother! I did not expect to see you today.” 

To the servant girl, he arched a brow and asked, “Did my brother distract you from getting those books, Huifen?”

The girl startled, eyes wide. “Oh! I forgot! I will get right to it, Prince Zitao!”

She had scurried off before Yixing could blink. Instead he looked questioningly at Zitao, who merely shrugged and gestured at the book he had been reading.

“I vividly recall seeing more volumes in the library, so I sent her to find them.” He offered another shrug and grinned. “She must have forgotten all about it when she met you on the way.”

“My apologies,” Yixing said dryly.

Zitao was Xifeng’s son and inherited her genes; he was taller than Yixing _and_ their father by quite a margin despite being nearly four years younger than Yixing, but that was all right: Zitao never used his superior height to make Yixing feel small like Jianjun so often did when he was getting fed up by Yixing’s defiance. 

Zitao favoured loose and practical clothes in earthy colours and simple jewellery. Today’s attire was mostly reddish brown and forest green with splashes of gold and topped off with a ruby earstick in each lobe and red satin bracelets hugging his wrists. His hair was longer than Yixing’s but shorter than their father’s, and much like their father he liked to keep it away from his face in a high ponytail with ornamental hairpins. 

Keen eyes were looking over Yixing, a frown appearing between a pair of thin eyebrows. “Seems to me the council did not go well,” he mused. 

“Father has forbidden me from attending another council until next month,” Yixing bit out. “He said he would only allow me back if I can convince him it will be worth his while. In other words, I must be just another shell of a body with neither heart nor head.”

The frown on Zitao’s face deepened. “Surely he will not keep you out that long. You are his heir.”

Yixing snorted derisively. “What good does that do anyone when I cannot even convince him not to poison an innocent child?”

Zitao visibly sagged. Pained, he said, “A _child_?”

The tower was one of the most clandestine places to talk if one were afraid of eavesdroppers, but still Yixing kept his voice low as he said, “The Málí heir. Father adjourned the meeting before they came to a decision, but one of Father’s men suggested we off the infant. I was led to believe the relations between the regnants and their people are strained, and with the queen sickly and an infant heir…” 

“Father intends to strike while they’re vulnerable,” Zitao murmured, “so as to weaken them before he sends his armies. Is that it?”

“Yes,” said Yixing darkly. “And to think they would give thought to such vile deeds with an emissary at the palace in times of peace!”

“Yes, Emissary Nitchakhun,” Zitao said, because Zitao somehow remembered the names of every palace staff and guest and visitor despite spending most of his time in a tower. He hummed thoughtfully. “If he catches wind of this…” 

“Nobleman Jiaolong hinted at arranging his demise, too,” Yixing said. “As though the deaths of a queen and an heir will not be enough to rouse suspicion, they also dangle the emissary’s fate without a care. We might as well send a messenger to Málí ourselves to inform them of the forthcoming assassination of their queen and their heir and hang up posters in the city centre proclaiming our guilt at the pace we are going.”

“Father would know not to kill the emissary,” Zitao said, but he sounded more like he was trying to convince himself that was the case.

“No,” Yixing said through gritted teeth, “Father would know to make his death seem like an accident. Perhaps he would even go so far as to arrange for an imposter to replace Emissary Nitchakhun until no one will think to connect the dots. Or perhaps he will make it look like suicide in the wake of his queen’s passing.”

Zitao tilted his head and pursed his lips. “Emissary Nitchakhun is close with Emissary Shuhua,” he said. “It would be a dangerous move to remove him from court.”

Yixing squinted at the floor as he tried to remember which kingdom Shuhua was from. “She is the emissary from Mei?”

Zitao nodded. “They may be close, but that is not to say Emissary Nitchakhun is not friendly with the others. The four of them are pretty tight. I don’t think even Father would risk it.”

Yixing greeted the emissaries whenever he came across them in the palace, but he had never exchanged many words with any of them. He knew the kingdoms of Mogryeon and Asagao were friendly – so friendly indeed that sometime last blizzard, in one of the reports he had acquired from one of his father’s personal spies by means of Junmyeon’s nifty fingers, he had learned that the regnants were discussing the prospect of a wedding between Crown Prince Minseok and Crown Princess Sana – and had several trade routes already established. In the wake of the Wars, where specifically Mei and Málí had warred among themselves and Mogryeon, Mei’s relationship with its neighbours was as strained as Lián’s.

He would have thought the enmity between their respective kingdoms might have made the two emissaries’ association less amiable, but it appeared he had thought wrong. Perhaps being on Lián soil, the territory of their common enemy, had inspired a bond between equals – or perhaps the emissaries had simply chosen to overlook the past in the hopes of a united future. 

“We can hope,” Yixing said. He made a mental note to look into the emissaries and their relationships later. “Still, Emissary Nitchakhun may be safe so long as he has the other emissaries, but if Father decides to rid himself of the queen and the heir, there is little I can do to stop it. He will not listen to anything I have to say.”

Zitao smiled sadly. “Keep trying, Brother. I have faith you will get through to him one day.”

“I do not.” Yixing despaired and began to pace the room, which was made difficult by the clutter on the floor. It was, however, all he could do to soothe the restless energy in him. “The last time you sat in on the meetings was just after your twentieth birthday and a few days shy of the peace treaty being signed. You have never stood up to him like I do.”

“We cannot give up,” Zitao insisted. “He will listen no more to me than he will to you. I am but a thorn in his side, a son he ignores most days. He cannot ignore you.”

“Zitao.” Yixing took three long steps to come face to face with Zitao and grabbed his hands. “ _Please_. He is thinking of sending you to war under General Weishan’s protection.”

Zitao was quiet for a while, a frown marring his face. He squeezed Yixing’s hands. “Well,” he said softly, “I did not think he hated me that much.”

“It is not you he hates,” Yixing said. “It is _me_. The more vocal I am with my complaints, the more vexed he becomes. I think this is him threatening me through you.”

“Hmm.” Zitao pursed his lips. “I suppose I will have to go to war, then.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You mustn’t let him win, Brother,” Zitao said. “If he knows he can threaten you with me, he will do it every time you stand up to him until you cease entirely or I am dead. If I die, he will find someone else you love and use them against you.”

Yixing’s eyes widened when it dawned on him. “Xiaoqing and Xiaodan,” he whispered.

Zitao softened and turned Yixing’s hands palms-up. He traced the lines in his palm with his thumb and murmured, “He must under no circumstances turn his attention to them. Zhilan gave up her life to protect them; we _cannot_ let her death be in vain. You will have to walk a thin line between fighting him and protecting them.”

“I will _not_ send you off to war,” Yixing hissed. “You will not return. General Weishan is a good man and the men and women under his command are capable soldiers, but you are not a fighter. If the enemy learns that the prince of the Lián Empire is among the ranks, they will stop at nothing to get to you. Death will be a _mercy_.”

Zitao sighed and dropped his hands. “I know, Yixing.”

“I will not allow it,” Yixing said. “There is still a year left of the treaty; we have time yet. I promise I will find a way to protect you.”

“The first four passed by fast,” Zitao said, a sad little smile gracing his face that Yixing wanted so dearly to replace with one of happiness.

He moved to stand by Zitao’s desk and skimmed through the open pages of the book. Were it not for the odd word here and there, it might as well have been written in a foreign language. There were scientific terms he had never stumbled upon before and words he didn’t even dare try to pronounce. 

“Tell me what you have been studying,” he said. He had had his time to vent, so now he owed it to Zitao to settle down and hear him talk about the constellations and the strange planets in the sky that had held his fascination since he was a child. Besides, a change of topic was in order. He had had enough discussions of death to last the day, if not the rest of the week.

As expected, Zitao lit up like one of his beloved stars and hurried to Yixing’s side to patiently attempt to teach him the meaning of some of the words in the book and share his theories of what humanity might find if they were able to travel to the stars. 

No, Yixing thought as he watched Zitao leaf through the book in search of a drawing he wanted to show him, Zitao would not go to war.

A queen and her infant son could die, but Zitao would remain right here in the palace until love or the stars took him somewhere else. 

Yixing would make sure of it.

-

Yixing liked to indulge in the nearly-tender moments he had with Junmyeon.

He couldn’t treat Junmyeon as anything other than a loyal servant outside his own quarters or people would start whispering about it. Everyone already knew he treated his servants fairly, and it was no different with his slave – but social norms dictated that as someone whose station was essentially lower than that of a stray mutt, Junmyeon had to tread carefully or certain people would point out any little misdemeanour or oversight and call for swift discipline. 

Junmyeon’s role as Yixing’s personal slave certainly had its benefits; everyone at the palace knew that damaging something of the first prince’s was frowned heavily upon, and in many cases corporeally penalised. Yixing had been quick to make it commonly known that if Junmyeon were to come to any harm that was not approved by Yixing himself, the offenders would be held accountable and punished.

Palace staff knew well that Yixing looked out for Junmyeon’s wellbeing, and indeed also every other man and woman in his personal entourage, but Yixing took great care to make sure no one knew just how much he cared. 

Trifling with a servant was not straight-up condemned so much as it was cause for gossip and perhaps even slight ridicule, and Yixing _had_ flirted with a maid during his seventeenth year until the excitement wore off, but a slave was another matter. As the first prince in particular, if such rumours were to spread, Junmyeon might very well be accused of harbouring darkness within his heart and using his tainted blood to contaminate Yixing’s soul and ensnare his mind.

It would mean certain death for Junmyeon, and Yixing would be powerless to stop it. If they believed Junmyeon had such a hold over him, his pleas would fall on deaf ears and sympathetic faces.

But oh – he wanted so badly to coax out sighs and moans from Junmyeon’s mouth and swallow them; savour them.

Night had claimed the lands, and scented candles had been lit and left around his bedroom at seemingly random but, knowing Junmyeon, probably very likely the opposite. 

His bed was a four-poster with several pillows and soft sheets and big enough to comfortably fit in three adults. Red, brown, orange, and black hues dominated his room, large paintings hanging along the walls and sizeable chests taking up a good portion of the floor. 

Yixing sat at his dressing table and stared at Junmyeon’s reflection in the mirror as Junmyeon gently combed his hair. Junmyeon’s face was set in neutral folds and he was humming softly to himself. Yixing was at risk of lulling off where he sat, partially due to a weary day but mostly because Junmyeon was prone to using his fingers instead of the comb. Yixing rarely felt as much at ease as he did in evenings like this one.

“Do you want me to braid it for the night?” Junmyeon asked.

“Please.”

It was quiet between them while Junmyeon’s fingers deftly tied his hair into a loose braid. Yixing watched those fingers through half-lidded eyes and wondered if they would be as nimble across his skin if ever given the chance.

He closed his eyes fully, not entirely sure if it were an attempt at ridding himself of the sight or to allow his imagination to run wild.

“When would you like to wake up tomorrow now that you are barred from attending the council?” Junmyeon asked.

Yixing harrumphed, his mood instantly soured at the memory. “The usual time. There is no reason to sleep in when there are other things I must see to.”

“Such as proving to your father that you belong in the meetings?”

Yixing grimaced. “Yes. I do not know how to convince him.”

“Perhaps you will know tomorrow,” Junmyeon said and stepped back. “Stand up.”

Yixing did as bid and held out his arms to allow Junmyeon better access to undo the ribbons and ropes and brooches keeping the fabrics together. While he didn’t mind in the slightest, he still did not understand why Junmyeon, who at first had been so vehemently opposed to do the tasks that befell him as a slave, dutifully insisted on doing them years later. Yixing had told him several times that he was perfectly capable of doing these things himself, but Junmyeon had told him to shut up, so Yixing eventually had.

Besides, the weight of Junmyeon’s hands as they ran across his shoulders to slide off the layers of fabrics sent barely-suppressed shivers down his spine. 

Yixing was a weak man where Junmyeon was concerned. 

As often as he had seen Junmyeon naked, Junmyeon had seen Yixing more. Every night for seven years, in fact, and counting. 

Junmyeon undressed him down to the last ribbon, and once that was done, he hummed and folded the fabrics of Yixing’s undergarments in his hands neatly. “Is there anything else you require of me?”

“No, thank you,” Yixing said instead of the _Let me worship you_ that he caught on his tongue and forcibly swallowed until the words dropped to the void in his ribcage. “That is all. Get some rest, Junmyeon.”

Junmyeon gave him a small smile that threatened to send Yixing to an early grave; any genuine smiles from Junmyeon were sacred. Yixing wanted to draw each of them in meticulous detail and decorate his walls with them. “You as well, Yixing.”

Yixing had arranged for Junmyeon to have his own bed in the room adjacent to Yixing’s. Sometimes in recent years Yixing cursed himself for doing that; he liked knowing Junmyeon was nearby should he need him, but it also meant Junmyeon could hear every moan of pleasure that escaped Yixing’s lips when he did not catch it in time. 

Dense or disinterested: Yixing had no choice but to suffer through the nights until he found out which one it was.

* * *

#1: I _love_ Mandarin names, man. Especially female ones; they’re so pretty! Jianjun is not the name I would have gone for, to be truthful, but according to this one site I looked at, it means "building the army", and, well, how was I supposed to resist?

#2: I started out with different words for week, month, and year, namely septet, moon, and tetrad. It came from experiencing with previous medieval-esque fics that it felt off to write actual modern-feeling words for it, but… I changed my mind with this fic ‘cause it’s set in a… slightly more 'modern' world (err, think maybe 1700s?) while still aspiring to be fantasy-esque and historical. That, and it seemed even more off to change _some_ of the words while others, such as night and day, stayed the same. So, there’s that. I’ll save the alternative names for another fic.


	2. Chapter II

“Curious,” Han drawled. “I do not see your pet around.”

“I sent him out on an errand,” Yixing said as he got comfortable on the couch; Han liked to surround himself with luxury, and the furniture in his quarters were no exception. “I do not think he will return until suppertime at earliest.”

“Well, that’s a shame.”

Han had been Yixing’s best friend for as long as he could remember, his mother a dear friend of Xifeng. When his parents tragically perished in an accident that left him an orphan at just eight years old, Xifeng had taken pity and adopted him in every sense of the word except by name and blood. As such he grew up as practically a third brother of Yixing as well as a friend, which Yixing at age seven thought was the best thing to ever happen.

Han had mellowed over the years. As a child he had been the noise to Yixing’s silence, which had frequently gotten him in trouble with Xifeng. Once or twice, his misbehaviour had earned him a whopping from Jianjun. Han had always sat through those sombrely, chubby cheeks puffed up in his attempt to hold back tears. 

Adult Han had shed the baby fat of his childhood in favour of smooth skin and a pretty face, which drew the interest of many women and men. He donned the finest silks gold could buy and had servants do his hair with several ornamental hairpins and sometimes a red ribbon or two. The day’s hairdo was surprisingly simple but made him no less handsome to whomever laid eyes on him.

“How have you been?” Yixing asked, curious to hear what Han had been up to since he last saw him.

Han shrugged to appear indifferent, but his lips were twitching with the urge to split into a grin. “I was a guest at a manor belonging to a young lady. Imagine – twenty-three and already a widow! Her daughter is too small yet to say _mother_.”

“Is that lady a friend or a lover?”

Han looked at him askance from his lounge on his favourite divan. “Can she not be both?”

“Is it not rather cruel of you to lead her on?” Yixing asked dryly. “She needs stability, which is far from what you have to offer her.”

“Ouch.” Han acted out being stabbed through the chest; Yixing snorted. “I _told_ her I was not looking to become her new husband, which she did not mind in the slightest. She insisted she just wanted a good time because she has been so stressed lately, so that’s what I gave her.”

“I see,” Yixing said. “I suppose you did well, then.”

Han hummed. “She certainly enjoyed it. I gave her more than a good time.” He lifted an eyebrow towards Yixing. “What about you, dearest friend? You are getting old.”

Yixing inclined his head towards Han. “I am not the only one.”

Han scoffed and waved him off. “Are you determined to abstain from coitus until you are wed or coerced into spending your nights with concubines? Or perhaps you intend to take your virginity to the grave?”

“You know well I am no virgin,” Yixing said dryly. 

Han’s expression was distinctly deadpan. “Please, enlighten me. It appears palace gossip has slackened terribly in recent years, for I have heard no rumours about your latest conquests.”

Yixing rolled his eyes and sank further into the soft cushions. Han’s gaze burned on his skin, but they were interrupted by the doors opening to let in a pair of servants carrying trays of refreshments. Han sighed and sat up, stretching his body before reaching for one of the trays. Yixing took the other tray offered to him. He picked a few pieces of an exotic fruit he forgot the name of but knew he liked and discarded the tray on the table between them. 

“Thank you,” Han said to the servants. “I will send for you if I need you later.”

With the servants gone and his full attention back on Yixing, Han said, “I am to conclude you have taken no woman to bed in years, then?”

Yixing swallowed the piece of fruit he had popped in his mouth. “There is no need,” he drawled, “when you more than make up for my slack.”

A grin split Han’s face. “While that may be true, you _do_ have your fair share of admirers. You would hardly have to seduce them into your bed.”

“Your carnal desires know no bounds,” Yixing muttered, much to Han’s amusement. 

“ _Yixing_ ,” he said, laughter in his voice. “You are the first prince of Lián. Once you take your father’s throne, Watcher’s blessings upon him, there will be no time for fun or to _explore_. Your most pressing duty then will be to impregnate your concubines.”

“Am I not allowed to enjoy that?” Yixing said.

Han rolled his eyes at him. “That is beside my point.”

“Then, pray tell, what _is_ your point?”

Han left him steeping as he grabbed a bundle of grapes from the tray closest to himself and returned to his lounge. He languidly ate a couple of them as he observed Yixing for a long stretch of silence. Eventually, he said, “Do you prefer men?”

“I like men and women equally,” Yixing said evenly. 

Han hummed. “Is that so.” He popped a few more grapes into his mouth and spoke again. “I suppose there is no harm done in what you do. I am just nosey.”

“And that,” Yixing said, “is something I believe will never change.”

“Is it such a bad thing that I care for my friend’s wellbeing?” Han said. “I am merely curious. We are so different, you and I, that I sometimes wonder why that is so when we spent our childhood practically attached.”

Yixing smiled and shook his head. “It is of no trouble. However, Han, do you not wish to settle down some day with a wife and children of your own?”

“I do. Xifeng always insists on introducing me to several lovely ladies whenever she is around in the hopes that I find one of them suitable.”

“Yet I cannot think of a single time any woman has ever truly held your heart. If ever there has been one, you failed to tell me.”

Han shrugged. “I have not been in love. The women I have been with have been lovely, as have the men, but not once have I felt more than carnal desire for them.” He cocked his head, a little frown appearing between his eyebrows. “Perhaps I am simply not capable of love.”

“I do not believe that,” Yixing said softly. “It is just a question of finding the right person. I do not think there is a single living soul at the palace that has not at some point daydreamed about a marital life with you.”

Han snorted and looked askance at Yixing. “Your pet, that Junmyeon, has never shown the _slightest_ inclination of desiring me. In fact, he hardly spares me any attention at all.”

Han sounded almost peeved about that, which rubbed Yixing the wrong way. He felt something dark within himself rear its ugly head at the thought of Han laying his hands on Junmyeon’s body, or of them sharing heated moments in Han’s bed or anywhere at all.

Han’s voice cut through the undesirable images that had emerged entirely unbidden in Yixing’s head. “Of course, if the rumours as to his manhood are true…”

“They are not,” Yixing said firmly, perhaps a tad too harshly. He detested those rumours. “I do not know why they are still alive and kicking when it has been several years.”

He needed to get a hold of himself. This was neither the time nor the place for him to feel so possessive of Junmyeon, and it never would be. 

Junmyeon belonged to Yixing on paper, but if Junmyeon ever wanted to be free of the metaphorical chains binding him to Yixing, or if he decided that he no longer wanted to stick around until Yixing ascended the throne, then Yixing would release him. Perhaps he would need a day or two to wallow in self-pity at allowing what could have been to slip through the cracks between his fingers, but he would not force Junmyeon to stay by his side until the end of his days. He respected their friendship too much for that. 

Han was talking again. “Odd, then, that such a rumour should have started in the first place.” He hummed. “How would you know what is true and what is not?”

Yixing levelled Han with a hard look. Han returned his stare with an open one of his own, but Yixing refused to leave it at that. “I know you mean no disrespect, Han, but your implications are not welcome in this room.”

“My apologies,” Han said and bowed his head. “I just hope you know that my silence is a guarantee if ever you should want to share with me something… delicate. Your pet is a handsome man, after all, even more so than when he first came to us.”

“Enough,” Yixing snapped. 

He loved Han dearly, but between Han and Yifan, Yifan had always been and would always be his first choice when he needed a confidante for matters of his heart. Yifan was a romantic even if he tried to hide it. He was empathic where Han tended towards cynicism, soft-spoken and considerate where Han did not always care or realise if his words hurt. 

Yifan had been the first person Yixing had sought out once the gravity of his feelings for Junmyeon had dawned on him earlier that year in growth, and Yifan had listened attentively and offered him sound advice that Yixing may or may not have followed.

Yixing knew he could trust Han with matters like this as much as he knew that _Han knew_ he would rather discuss them with Yifan. Han had never outright confronted Yixing about it, but it could not have passed him by. 

Still, this was one secret Han would not be privy to. It was not that he thought Han would use his feelings against him or mock him for desiring a man who was a slave. He was more likely to tell him to just _man up_ and go do something about it.

It was simply just that Han was Han, and Han was not always easy to talk to in the same way Yifan was, and where Han had never truly loved someone before, Yifan loved with his whole being.

Besides, while Yixing had not had any intention of sharing that information with him before coming to see him, he felt even less inclined now after Han had mentioned Junmyeon’s lack of attention in such a disgruntled tone.

Han nibbled at a couple of grapes and said, “Well, so long as you know I am here for you.”

“I do, my friend,” Yixing said. “And on that note, there is something else I wish to discuss with you.”

Han arched a brow in intrigue. “Yes?”

“I had another fight with Father,” Yixing said. “Well, a few fights, I suppose.”

He told Han about the queen and her infant son, about his need to find a good reason for why his father should allow him into the meetings once more, his father’s disinterest in hearing anything he had to say, and, lastly, his plans of sending Zitao to war.

“ _Absolutely not_ ,” Han said, so vehemently that Yixing almost cracked a smile. His reaction to the prospective assassinations on the two royals had been tepid compared to this, which Yixing had just about expected from him. “How could your father come to such a foolish conclusion? You and I are fighters, but Zitao? By Watcher, he’s a _lamb_.”

“Indeed.”

“We have to change your father’s mind,” Han insisted, grapes forgotten in his lap. “He cannot –”

A knock on the doors interrupted Han’s passionate speech. He turned a glare towards the doors where one of the servants from earlier was peeking through. “Lord Han,” she said. “Master Yifan wishes to see you. May I send him in?”

“Yes, please.”

“Oh,” Yixing said. “I did not expect to see him today.”

“I heard he returned to the palace yesterday around midnight,” Han said. “I wanted to see him, and I reckoned you wouldn’t mind his presence. We have not yet had a chance to celebrate his birthday, just the three of us.”

“That is true,” Yixing said just as Yifan was led through the doors by the servant.

Yifan’s dark hair was about the same length as Yixing’s, and unlike most others Yixing knew, he preferred to tie back half of it in a simple hairdo or simply leave it loose. He was often seen in yellows or browns or blues, or in the green colours of the university, and today was no exception. Compared to Han’s flowy fabrics and numerous layers, Yifan’s attire was rather dull but fit him well.

“Yixing,” Yifan said upon spotting him, sounding pleasantly surprised. “Good to see you. It has been a while.”

“It has,” Yixing said and rose from the cushions to offer Yifan a hug. “Blessings on turning twenty-eight. How is your mother?”

“She is well,” Yifan said and smiled. “She loves Father, but I am starting to suspect she enjoys handling the estate in his absence a bit more than she lets on.”

“It would not surprise me if she did,” Yixing said dryly and gestured for Yifan to take a seat next to his own spot once he had hugged Han as well. “Kuaihua has always been an admirable lady.”

“Not to forget _scary_ ,” Han added. 

Yixing laughed, even if Kuaihua indeed had scared him as a child. She was a strict woman with a firm hand and strong opinions, which Yifan’s father had fallen heedlessly in love with back when he had still been a captain. The two of them were a powerful couple and, despite spending much time apart, always there for each other. Yixing had witnessed their love in fleeting glances and innocent caresses many a time over the years. 

“Sometimes, yes,” Yixing said, amusement still seeping into his voice. 

Han gestured at the two trays on the table. “Take whatever you want, Yifan. If you need something else, I will call for a servant.”

“This will more than suffice,” Yifan said and snatched a handful of apple slices. “I had lunch with Father before coming here.”

“Did your father tell you about Zitao?” Han asked. Yifan blinked at him. “Yixing’s father wants Weishan to take Zitao once the peace treaty is up and they go to war.”

Yifan nearly crushed the apple slices within his hand. “Zitao? You must be jesting.”

“He is not,” Yixing said.

The look of distress on Yifan’s face made Yixing’s stomach twist. “Is there no hope of the treaty being extended?”

“Father wants war,” Yixing said softly. “And if war is what he wants, war is what he gets.”

“I will speak to my father,” Yifan said, nibbling at his lips as he looked at the apple slices in his hand as if they held the answers he sought. “There is probably nothing he can do about it short of refusing, which Father would never do.”

“You need supporters,” Han said. He contemplated his words as Yixing and Yifan turned their eyes to him. “Could you gain the support of someone in the council? Preferably more than one.”

“The council was handpicked by my father,” Yixing said sourly. “He took great care to appoint only the ones that shared his mindset and penchant for violence.”

“Everyone agrees Zitao is not fit to rule,” Han said, ruthlessly blunt as ever even if Yixing agreed. Yixing caught Yifan’s grimace in the corner of his eye and offered a wan smile. “Use that to gain their support, perhaps.”

“I fail to see how that might work,” Yixing said. “They do not want Zitao on the throne, so what better way to assure that won’t happen by sending him to his death under the guise of protection and maturity?”

“Pigheaded good-for-nothings,” Yifan muttered.

“Besides,” Yixing said dryly, “I need my father’s permission to attend the councils before I can start to gain their support in anything.”

“His permission?” Yifan repeated, dumbfounded. “Why?”

Han swiftly filled him in on what had happened during the week of his absence while Yixing reached for some apple slices of his own. Yifan was frowning hard by the time Han finished. “I see. I suppose the first step is to get you back in the meetings, then.”

“Strike a bargain with your father,” Han said.

Yixing rubbed at his forehead. “And what do you propose?”

Han shrugged. “Whatever he wants that you have to offer. Your obedience, perhaps?”

Yixing made sure his stare at Han was every bit as unimpressed as he felt. “He will not accept my obedience unless I swear it to him forever, which is out of the question. Frankly, I rather doubt he would give my promise of obedience any consideration at all.”

“What if you went instead of Zitao to –” Han cut himself off. “No, that is off the table as well.”

“Indeed.”

Yifan was looking between them in confusion. “Are we talking bargains to keep Zitao here or are we talking bargains to get your seat back at the council?”

Han waved a hand. “Whichever.”

Yixing direly needed some tea. “Start from the most pressing matter at hand, which is the council. I have two weeks to convince my father. I have time yet to change his mind about Zitao.”

“I suppose your title as first prince is not enough to sway him,” Yifan murmured. Yixing nodded dejectedly. “Then a bargain, as Han said, may be your best option.”

If only it were so simple as to swear off arguing with his father for a week.

-

The palace temple was open to everyone whether they be servants or royalty, so Yixing tended to avoid the crowd by going early in the morning or late at night. 

Thus, Prayerday found Yixing bright and early before one of the altars. The floor was pleasantly cool against his forehead as he murmured prayers into the stone, a gentle hum amongst the other worshippers in the temple. 

He did not dislike the lack of privacy in the palace temple, per se, but he _did_ look forward to the day he was granted access to the one in the emperor’s quarters. Believed to be the greatest point for contact with the Watcher, it was open only to the emperor, the temple workers when the emperor was absent, and, if he so deemed it appropriate, blood family.

Jianjun had never allowed anyone but himself – and the monks – inside the temple.

Junmyeon, who worshipped not the Watcher but some of the lesser gods, usually opted to stay behind, but this day he had tagged along because they would be going to the city afterwards to visit one of the other temples. He had offered a short prayer before hugging one of the walls as he waited for Yixing.

Yixing made sure to always visit the palace temple at least thrice a week, albeit he tended to stay for no longer than fifteen minutes; the extended and meticulous sessions were usually reserved for the blood moon rites and other such special occasions.

He bowed one last time before the altar before he stepped away and, after a cursory glance around the room in search of Junmyeon, made his way back to him.

“Shall we?” he said the moment he was within earshot. Junmyeon dipped his head once in a nod. 

Twenty minutes later, they passed through the Imperial Palace’s striking front gate, on foot because Yixing had insisted. The weather was pleasant, and with blizzard soon ushering them shivering inside and near fire, he wanted to enjoy the last bits of late-wither warmth they were granted. A few armoured and armed escorts accompanied them, and another two were nearby but deliberately stayed out of sight. As a child, Yixing had loved playing _spot the bodyguard_ with Han and Yifan and had always been proud when he _did_ spot one of them. The excitement had worn off in his adolescent years (and once he had realised they had allowed him to find them; were he to try now, he would probably have more success making wild guesses than actually looking).

Trips to the inner city happened fairly often, but rarely were they for official business. He knew his father preferred to stay within the palace gates to scheme, but Yixing got bored fast. First Prince he may be, but other than council, his father had sparingly few tasks for him to do that concerned state matters.

At least the trips to the inner city were always a delight. Fairday usually meant fairs in addition to the usual markets, plays, music, thousands of people; Meditiationday, on the other hand, traditionally was the one time of week where servants were allowed a few more hours of leisure or even the whole day off and nobles lazed about in their estates, often hangover from spending Fairday night indulging poor habits. 

Walking the streets at this hour had a certain charm; few people up and about, the sun just barely gracing the lands with its light, fresh air, a peculiar quiet right before the bustle began. The day had barely started. 

The temple Junmyeon frequented was not far from the Great University of Lián, the towers of which were visible above most of the other buildings. It was a few streets away from the city centre, so once they reached the crossroads of Emperor’s Road, Ancient Fountain Road, and Market Road, they broke off their current path and went down Market Road.

“First Prince Yixing!” a young voice called. Yixing brought his entourage to a halt with a raised hand once he spotted the small child that came running up to them. Her cheeks were red from the cold, but a wide grin still split her face.

“First Prince,” she said excitedly and stumbled to a halt before him, “I have a gift for you.” She held out her hand, and in her palm was a small pebble.

The child’s caretaker, a young woman, arrived, looking slightly frazzled. She grabbed the girl by the shoulder and firmly but gently drew her away from Yixing. “My deepest apologies, First Prince Yixing. She saw you from afar and took off before I had a chance to stop her. I’m terribly sorry to have interrupted your plans this morning.”

Yixing smiled and waved the girl forward. “It is of no trouble, miss.” The girl had been looking up at the woman with a sour look on her face, but she lit up in another grin once she saw Yixing’s gesture. “What have you got for me, little lady?”

The girl held out her hand again. Yixing sank into a crouch while she said, “A pebble! I found it by the river when Mother took me to find mushrooms.” Her face turned serious all of a sudden, and in a sombre tone she asked him, “Do you like mushrooms?”

Yixing shared a look with Junmyeon, whose impassive face gave little away; his eyes were another matter, the mirth clear as day. “I do, yes.”

The girl scrunched up her face, having obviously not expected Yixing to like mushrooms, but she was smiling again within moments. “Then I will like them as well!” She grabbed Yixing’s hand and deposited the pebble in his palm. “Mother says a water sprite must have left the pebble by the river, so that makes it blessed.”

The pebble was truthfully nothing remarkable to look at, and why this particular one had garnered the girl’s attention amongst the many others that would undoubtedly also be by the riverbank, Yixing did not know – but it did not stop him from arching an impressed brow at the girl. “If that is so, would you not rather keep it for yourself?”

“No!” the girl said, shaking her head so vigorously it almost made Yixing dizzy to look at. “You should have it!” She squared her shoulders, brown eyes so fervent as she looked imploringly at Yixing. “Father never came back from the wars, and my brothers will also leave us if Emperor calls for them. But if you were emperor, we wouldn’t have to worry. We would –”

The woman darted forward to once again draw the girl back. “Enough.” The expression on her face was strained as she looked at Yixing. “She’s only a girl. She knows not what she is implying. Please forgive her, and please forgive me, First Prince.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Yixing murmured, squeezing the pebble in his hand. If even the _children_ felt another war stirring… Children should not have to fear for the future. Yixing’s early childhood had been untroubled and joyful, and while children such as this one would not have the same comforts he had been born into, they still should not have to worry so much at this age. 

The girl appeared to be no older than seven or eight. It was much too young.

A few curious passersby had taken a break from their schedules to observe them; Junmyeon’s discreet nudge spurred Yixing back into action.

He smiled at the girl and patted the side of her head. “I promise to do what I can if you promise to be good to your mother and your brothers, all right? Help your mother when she needs you, and eat the mushrooms.”

She nodded resolutely. “I will!”

He got back to his feet and absentmindedly brushed off his knees. “Good. I must get going, little lady. Take care – both of you.”

“Blessings upon you, First Prince,” the woman said quietly, dipping into a curtsy before taking the girl’s hand and leading her away. The passersby murmured blessings and went on their way, as well.

“Well,” Junmyeon said under his breath, “the girl is wise for her age. She gave you something that is not porcelain.”

Yixing’s smile was pleasant as he looked over his shoulder at his bodyguards and motioned for them to start moving again, but through gritted teeth he said, “I will have you walk barefoot on hot coals until you beg me for mercy.”

Junmyeon hummed. “No, you won’t.”

“One day I might.”

“No.”

In truth, Yixing had done practically nothing to ease the lives of the people. He had tried, certainly, and he regularly begged his father to do this or to do that, but – it changed nothing. Yixing’s hands were tied: He did not have his father’s approval to withdraw huge amounts of gold from the treasure to help the citizens, nor did he have the authority to order the construction of new buildings or the restoration of old ones. Most recently he had donated five-thousand bags of grain and rice to the outer corners of the city, and for that he had earned only a long-suffering look from his father. 

He knew it was not a move he could get away with again without harsher reprimand.

What little he _could_ do was listen to the people when they gathered enough courage to approach him during his trips outside the palace walls. He was loath to make promises he thought he could not keep, but he accepted all their gifts with smiles and gratitude and offered a few coins here and there if there were few to witness it.

His willingness to talk and listen usually also delayed him quite a bit, which he did not always take into account on days where he needed to be back at the palace at a certain time. This time, thanks to his father, he had no schedules until sometime past noon, so they spent most of the morning in the city. 

His father, when he so deigned to grace the city with his presence, always had a squad of armed guards to protect him at all times whereas Yixing felt safe with only the two by his side and the other pair of bodyguards blending in with the crowds, but his father never would.

For that, Jianjun could blame only himself, but he did not care.

Yixing knew of one attempt on his own life in the streets a handful of years ago, but the ambush had been thwarted by his guards before the woman could get within range to do any harm. Curiously, it had been Junmyeon who had first alerted Yixing to the danger by laying a hand on his underarm to slow him down. 

He had made many enquiries into Junmyeon’s past, of his life before he came to Lián, but it was a topic Junmyeon refused to discuss beyond a clipped explanation of a disgraced father and a whore mother. Through the years, Yixing had come to his own conclusions and allowed the topic to rest.

Still, he wished Junmyeon would allow him more than a glimpse into his thoughts and a better understanding of his character. They were friends, and Yixing would entrust his life to Junmyeon within a heartbeat.

Before the ambush that took away his mother and Zhilan, Yixing and Junmyeon had gotten along perfectly fine but Yixing had not considered Junmyeon a friend in the strictest sense: A companion, certainly, but not someone he confided in. As fate would have it, Junmyeon had been with Yixing when the news of Xiulan and Zhilan’s deaths had reached him. 

He remembered the staggering grief, the blinding rage, and the piercing guilt.

He had insisted on seeing the reports despite his father’s cautions because he had needed to know _how_ the enemy had managed to infiltrate the Jade Palace. Granted, the palace was not as heavily guarded as the emperor’s residence of choice, but a palace housing both empresses and their three daughters during wartimes should have warranted significant security all the same. 

Yixing had found no faults in the reports concerning the guards on duty, although he had thought and still thought it reeked of some sort of betrayal amongst their own people – but with no evidence, he had had no choice but to look elsewhere for someone or something to blame.

The infiltration had happened early in the evening with the ambush following a few hours later. It had been swift and brutal, and obviously their main target had been anyone with royal blood. Guards had alerted Xiulan and Xifeng in time for them to reach the girls’ quarters and rouse them from their slumber. They had worked together to get the girls to safety outside the palace, but the enemy had shown up before they could do the same. Xifeng had managed to escape unscathed, but Xiulan had suffered a beating and a deep stab wound in her abdomen. 

Xiaoqing and Xiaodan reunited with Xifeng sometime later in the night outside the palace, but Zhilan, to assure her younger sisters’ escape, had been caught by enemy soldiers. Her corpse was found by the riverside by patrolling guards the following morning, cruelly mangled and bloodied, nightdress in tatters. 

Xiulan eventually succumbed to complications and internal bleeding, but at least she had been aware enough on her deathbed to say her goodbyes to her daughters and Xifeng.

Yixing had had to stop reading when his tears caused the words on the parchment to blur.

Junmyeon did not leave Yixing’s side in the days that followed as they anxiously waited for Xifeng, Xiaodan, and Xiaoqing to return to the Imperial Palace. He was a pillar of comfort, soothing words and guidance as Yixing struggled with grief. 

Zitao, first and foremost, lost a sister, but Xiulan had been almost as much his mother as Xifeng was, and when he didn’t weep into Yixing or Yifan’s shoulder, he tended to seek inwards to deal with his emotions. Han, who lost a mother figure, scarcely shed a tear in front of them, but Yixing knew he grieved as much in the privacy of his own quarters.

Yixing’s grief manifested in outbursts of sudden temper fits that only Junmyeon was around to deal with. 

Xifeng, upon their return, had been overwrought in her own grief of losing her only blood daughter and a dear friend, but still the first thing she had done was demand an audience with Jianjun. He had granted it, but the walls were not thick enough to silence her fury as she cursed him and his wars.

Jianjun’s apparent impassiveness was what slowly drove Yixing away more than anything. The wars were senseless to begin with, nothing but Jianjun’s unquenching thirst for power, and it dawned on Yixing that he had allowed himself to hide from reality behind the palace walls for too long. 

In the following months, he spent many hours in Xifeng’s company and came to see his father in a different light. 

Xiulan had loved Jianjun with all her heart. She may have been an advocate of peace rather than war, but she supported him all the same and was content so long as her loved ones were safe. Jianjun had loved her, as well, but not in the wholehearted way that Xiulan had loved him. Jianjun, Xifeng told Yixing one rainy evening, could and would never truly love anyone. It didn’t matter if it were Xiulan, his own choice for empress, or Yixing, his own blood. 

He simply was not capable of love the way most others were. 

That alone did not make him a terrible or hated man. It was his ideals, his morals, his deeds, and his lack of empathy for those he wronged on the way that sowed the seeds of Xifeng’s hatred. The deaths of Xiulan and Zhilan became the catalyst. 

Xifeng was no longer happy at the Imperial Palace and her hatred only grew for each day that passed by. Her arguments with Jianjun became a regular occurence, then a daily one.

The sacred blood between parents and their children meant that raising a hand to them was a punishable offence. Yixing had had a servant boy once who took any punishment for him, so Yixing had been careful not to invoke his father’s ire from an early age so as to spare the servant as many lashes as possible. 

Xifeng had neither blood nor servants to protect her from Jianjun: The first time Yixing ignored the servant sent by her to request they postpone their talk a few days, he had found her sitting morosely by her dressing table in her bedchamber, what little of her skin that was visible to his eyes besprinkled with tiny flowers of blues and greens and yellows. She had caught him frowning at the bruises and smiled wryly.

She had told him to nok look so concerned for Jianjun had never laid a hand on Xiulan, and while that mollified him _some_ , it still did not calm the fury in him at seeing the evidence of his father’s mistreatment. 

It was not long after that revelation that Xifeng took Xiaodan and Xiaoqing under her arms and left for another of their palaces. She knew Yixing could not leave the Imperial Palace, but she had pleaded with Zitao to come with her up until the day of their departure.

Zitao had watched them go with a sad look in his eyes, but he had been resolute in his decision to stay behind. It was for the best, he had insisted.

Everything had been in full bloom the last time Yixing had seen Xifeng and his sisters. He wondered if wither would see them returning to the Imperial Palace before Jianjun relocated to the Vermillion Palace for the blizzard season.

He missed them.

-

His father could bar him from council, but court was another matter.

They had been at it for little more than an hour and already Jianjun was showing signs of vexation; long fingers rested on his knee and tapped when his patience was running thin, narrowed eyes, shoulders squared, mouth curling downwards into a slight sneer when Yixing interrupted him.

It was, perhaps, a touch of retribution that drove Yixing to speak up at every possible turn instead of choosing his battles more carefully: He was still no closer to getting back into council, at a loss of how he could appease his father, and the end of the month would soon be upon them.

Disregarding his father’s authority so carelessly and interrupting the talks would definitely _not_ make it easier, but he was fed up. 

The mood in the Great Hall was decidedly stiff; With Jianjun seated on his throne and Yixing standing at the bottom of the dais, Jianjun’s advisers had settled around their table on Jianjun’s left hand and the rest of the attending court had spread out on the floor. Amongst them were also the four emissaries.

Since his talk with Zitao, Yixing had made sure to pay more attention to them. It was interesting to see for himself the close bond between Emissary Nitchakhun and Emissary Shuhua despite the reports Junmyeon had procured for him just yesterday noting the continued tension between their two kingdoms. 

They were whispering to each other, glancing at Yixing’s father with trepidation every once in a while (and even Yixing himself, he had noticed with some amusement). The other two emissaries, Jongdae and Takuya, had a better hold over their emotions and retained their neutral expressions.

A cursory sweep of the court revealed that it was not only the emissaries that felt uneasy in the wake of Yixing’s refusal to keep quiet and Jianjun’s consequent infuriation. The advisers kept exchanging looks and glancing nervously between Jianjun and Yixing.

“First Prince,” Jianjun finally said after a long silence, his tone carefully free of the danger in his eyes as he looked down at him. Yixing stared back coolly; he knew his father’s fuse was so short that any word from him could cause an explosion. “Perhaps we could continue court without further interference from you?”

Yixing bowed his head. “Emperor. Proceed.”

Jianjun’s eyes narrowed into slits, but he tore his gaze off Yixing and donned a neutral expression as he called forth the next person in line. 

Yixing listened to the noble’s grievances with half an ear. 

The previous woman had requested a divorce on account of an abusive husband, which Jianjun had nearly denied until Yixing stepped in to demand further explanation from her. She had complied, if cautiously, and revealed her husband had recently lost a fortune in a bad trade, but instead of getting back up he had wallowed in self-pity and anger. He had found solace in the bottom of a wine bottle, which turned to several bottles, which turned him violent and made talking with him nearly impossible. 

She had feared he would take it out on their children.

Jianjun had declared he would send an official to take stock of the situation, and if it were indeed as dire as she insisted, he would grant the divorce. He had not been pleased, but Yixing had refused to see her leave without _something_ ; if his father cared naught for the wellbeing of a wife and her children, Yixing certainly would.

Yixing remained quiet throughout the next two nobles that came forth (one requesting Jianjun’s blessing for a blood oath, which Jianjun considered carefully due to the nature of the request, and the other asking for a loan), but the third was one Yixing could not listen mutely to as his father contemplated the woman’s proposal.

“We must help,” he said and looked to his father, whose right hand was fisted on the armrest.

“Soldiers already apprehended the accused,” Jianjun said lowly. Dangerously. 

Yixing would not be deterred and stood straighter. “This family lost their entire fortune due to robbers we failed twice before to detain. Their son might never walk again. We owe it to them to offer some kind of –”

“Reimbursement, is that it?” Jianjun snapped. “You would empty our treasure to help anyone who comes to you for help? Fine.” He clasped his hands together and levelled Yixing with a steely stare. “What of those who come to you once you have no more to give? Will you go so far as to take loans from your wealthy nobles, only to end up in debt?”

Yixing pursed his lips. “Of course not –”

“Then _be quiet_ ,” Jianjun fairly hollered. “This family should have known better than to rely solely on their trade. They should have secured their fortune. A _fire_ could have done the same damage.” He rapped on the armrest with his knuckles. “I will not reimburse them. This was their own fault.”

Yixing bristled, but Jianjun silenced him with a hand before he could say anything. “No,” he ordered. He looked around the Great Hall at the people assembled. “Court is hereby adjourned. Kindly take your leave. _You_ ,” he said specifically to Yixing, “will stay.”

Murmurs of acquiescence arose amongst the crowd as they fanned out. Jongdae and Shuhua were looking Yixing’s way, eyes guarded, as they took their leave. The woman whose family had lost everything to the robbers mouthed something at Yixing once he caught her gaze. He thought it might have been _thank you_.

Once the Great Hall had emptied, Jianjun rose from his throne. He kept his fury under control, but his stare was hard as it landed on Yixing. 

“You undermine my authority time and time again,” he said lowly. “You need to learn your place and keep your mouth _shut_. I will not have an heir who disobeys me.”

“ _Why_ must you silence me?” Yixing demanded. “What I have to offer is not insignificant. If you would just _listen_ for once, perhaps we could come to see eye to eye!”

“You are weak-minded,” Jianjun said. “You are too much like your mother in that regard.” 

Yixing glared and said hotly, “Mother was _strong_ ,” but Jianjun was no longer looking at him but towards the doors.

“Servant!”

Immediately a girl peeked inside. “Yes, Emperor?”

“Fetch me the first prince’s slave,” Jianjun said. “Bring me one of my guards, as well.”

“Why?” Yixing asked, glare exchanged for a frown as he watched the girl dip into a bow before scurrying off. 

Jianjun did not answer, so Yixing pressed his lips together and waited. He knew pushing him for an answer would not make him yield.

A few minutes passed before the same servant girl knocked on the door and peeked inside again. “Emperor, shall I send them in?”

“Yes,” Jianjun said coolly.

The servant’s head disappeared and instead Junmyeon stepped through the doors. His gaze rested on Yixing for a split second, his face carved from stone, as he came to stand before Jianjun. One older man followed behind him.

“Emperor,” Junmyeon said, eyes downcast and voice much softer than usual. He fell into a deep bow. “You requested my presence.”

“On your knees,” Jianjun demanded. Yixing’s heart was palpitating in his chest, and he looked between Jianjun and Junmyeon with apprehension as Junmyeon slowly did as bid. 

“Father,” he demanded, but Jianjun did not spare him so much as a glance. 

Jianjun beckoned the guard forward. “Bare the slave’s back.”

“ _Father_ ,” Yixing said harshly, taking a step towards them. He realised what his father had in mind once he caught sight of the whip at the guard’s side, and it made him furious. “Father, I am not a child. Another man should not have to take the punishment meant for me!”

“It appears to be the only way to get through to you,” Jianjun said coolly. “Now, stand back and be quiet.” 

Yixing watched, aghast, as the guard procured a small knife from a pocket. The sound of clothes ripping echoed in Yixing’s ears, and he took another step forward, almost a stumble, but his father held up a hand. 

“If you speak out of turn,” he said, “each word out of your mouth will count towards another lash. Am I understood?”

“How many lashes do you intend to give him?” Yixing spat, caught somewhere between fury and fear. He had not thought – 

“Thirty.” Jianjun smiled. “And _you_ added nine more.”

Yixing felt sick. 

“Now,” Jianjun said, “is there anything else you would like to share with the room, or may we proceed?”

Yixing stole a glance at Junmyeon. His shirt hung loosely at his sides, his back bared. His hands were fisted on his knees, but other than that he offered no outward reaction to what was about to happen. He appeared as calm as ever. 

The guard had gotten into position behind Junmyeon, the whip held loosely in his hand. Yixing recognised the type from his childhood and grimaced. It was rather brutal.

Jianjun signalled to the guard to begin, and so the guard did.

The sound of the whip striking Junmyeon’s back resounded in the room. Yixing desperately wished Junmyeon would look at him so he could somehow relay his regrets for landing Junmyeon in this position, but Junmyeon was staring straight ahead and he did not seem inclined to look elsewhere.

Yixing silently counted the lashes – _sixteen_ – and stubbornly refused to look away. He had sworn to Junmyeon that he would never hurt him, but this was his fault. He had not thought his father would think to hurt Junmyeon, but he should have.

How much did Jianjun know? Did he realise how close they were?

Yixing felt an icy hand grip his heart. His father could _never_ know the feelings he held for Junmyeon. 

He could only do so much to threaten him with his siblings, but his slave… He could do whatever he wanted without anyone batting an eyelash.

“Your slave has always been remarkably resistant,” Jianjun remarked after the twenty-eighth crack of the whip, his voice startling Yixing out of his trance. “Twenty-eight lashes, and still he endures it without a sound. You would do well to take note.”

Yixing held his tongue and glared at Jianjun; he did not know if his father were goading him in the hopes of adding more lashes or if he were just feeling talkative now that he had the upper hand.

The thirty-fifth lash earned a slight grimace on Junmyeon’s face, there one moment and gone the next. Yixing fidgeted with his sleeves, eyes on the whip as it dealt the last four lashes.

After the thirty-ninth lash, Jianjun motioned for the guard to step back. “Enough. You may leave.”

The guard bowed and left. From the corner of his eyes, Yixing saw his father turn to him. He met his stare through sheer force of will and schooled his features into one of anger; he could not risk even a shred of concern to bleed through. 

“I hope your mind is clearer,” Jianjun said pleasantly. Yixing gritted his teeth. “See to it that this mess is cleaned, boy.”

With that, Jianjun turned on his heel.

Yixing would have broken every damned breakable object in the Great Hall if Junmyeon had not still been on his knees with blood trickling down his back. 

The sound of the doors closing behind Jianjun was like a bell; Yixing fell onto his knees by Junmyeon’s side and carefully brushed the back of his neck as he tried to gleam how bad it was. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice more choked than he had thought it would be. He dared not touch Junmyeon’s back for fear of doing more harm, but it did not look pretty. Thin streaks of blood marred the floor after the whip, and Junmyeon’s shirt was thoroughly destroyed. Yixing would have to make sure it was burned.

“If the alternative was him hurting you,” Junmyeon said quietly, “I would not mind sitting through another thirty lashes.”

“No,” Yixing bit out, dropping his hands helplessly at his sides. “Father knows not to hurt me like…” he grimaced, waving at Junmyeon’s back, “ _this_. The repercussions should the court find out what he did would be too great for him to risk, and they _would_ find out. There are so precious few secrets in this wretched place.”

Junmyeon’s face was less stony when he said, “If you keep going head to head with him as you have done the past year, he is bound to reach his limit and snap. He will take his anger out on you. Better he take it out on me.”

“He should not take it out on _anyone_ ,” Yixing said, “least of all someone who has no part in this. This is between him and I.” He reached for Junmyeon’s bare shoulder, eyeing the pitiful shreds of his shirt with distaste. “We must have a doctor see you immediately, or the wounds might leave scars.”

Junmyeon heaved a sigh, a frown of pain crossing his face when he made to move. “Please.”

Yixing helped Junmyeon back to his quarters, uncaring of the curious looks he received. The first servants he laid eyes on were ordered to clean up the blood in the Great Hall, which they hurried to do, and the next were sent to fetch a doctor. 

A stifled grunt slipped past Junmyeon’s tightly-closed lips when he carefully sat down on the edge of his bed. Yixing helped him take off the shirt before getting him settled on his stomach. He frowned down at Junmyeon’s back, the blood thick and clotting. There wasn’t much, per se, but combined with the tattered skin it was enough to paint a macabre canvas. 

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, and he drew a sigh of relief. “Enter.”

One of the servants from earlier snuck inside, his face scrunched up with something akin to fear. Yixing frowned heavily. 

“Uh,” the boy said. He hesitated.

“Spit it out,” Yixing demanded. 

The boy looked down. “Every doctor said no.”

Yixing’s fingers itched to snatch one of the vases, but he fought down the urge. _Later_. “Why, pray tell, would they refuse my orders?”

The boy swallowed. Yixing closed his eyes and attempted to cool down. He would _not_ take his anger out on someone else. “Emperor’s orders, they said. We – First Prince!”

Yixing had shot up from the bed and marched towards the doors. “You are dismissed,” he bit out. “Thank you – I will take it from here.”

“All right,” the boy squeaked and stepped aside to allow Yixing past him. 

By Watcher, Yixing prayed he would not come upon his father on his way to the medical wing. He had no time to waste trying to find a doctor who would risk his father’s wrath for going against orders, but if he came across his father – 

It took him five minutes to reach the medical wing, and one minute to spot a doctor stocking some shelves. He stormed right up to her.

“Doctor,” he said, startling her, “I need someone to attend to my slave. He is hurt.”

The woman’s eyes were wide after turning around to look at him, and she dipped into a bow and stuttered, “First Prince, I… I cannot. The emperor –”

“My slave’s back is in _tatters_ ,” Yixing fairly cried. His raised voice drew attention, nosy people appearing to see what the commotion was about. He looked between them, seeing another doctor amongst the newcomers. “Are you all truly so afraid of my father that you would deny a patient your aid?”

“First Prince,” one of the newcomers said, a young girl who appeared to be an assistant by her attire. “Please, have some consideration. None of us wish to incur the emperor’s wrath.”

“You have sworn by Watcher to always help those in need,” Yixing hissed. “Am I to understand, then, that you would gladly go to the Ancient Fountain and drown yourselves in it if my father told you to?”

“First Prince!” the other doctor exclaimed. He dropped into a low bow as he said, “We are loyal servants to the emperor. His wish –”

“Enough!” Yixing yelled. “Get back to work. I do not care for your excuses.”

He left that part of the wing to look for others, but no matter whom he approached for help, he was rejected with a heartfelt apology.

He knew it was not their fault. He knew he could not blame them for doing as his father had ordered, but his concern for Junmyeon did not diminish as he combed the medical wing and nearby corridors for anyone willing to help. 

It was as he rounded a corner after another regretful assistant had shaken her head sadly at him that a voice behind him halted his steps. “I received a shipment of healing ointments from my family the other day. I could bring some to you, First Prince.”

Yixing recognised the man in front of him: Emissary Jongdae from Mogryeon. Sharp cheekbones, keen eyes, and a thin pair of lips. He was dressed rather simply in what Yixing assumed had to be a combination of Mogryeon and Lián fashion and fabrics. Curious.

He narrowed his eyes at Jongdae. “Why would you risk my father’s disdain?”

Jongdae shrugged. “Your slave’s name is native to my kingdom.” His stare hardened as he said, “I will not leave a fellow countryman to suffer through pain caused by your emperor’s whims.”

Yixing arched an eyebrow at Jongdae’s bluntness that courted insolence. It could not be blamed on the language barrier; Jongdae pronounced the words like someone born in Lián and seemed to have no trouble with his vocabulary. 

“All right,” he said slowly. “I would appreciate your help.”

“I will retrieve the ointment from my quarters,” Jongdae said. 

Yixing nodded. “Come to my quarters. Junmyeon is resting there, and I think it is best not to move him.” He paused, mouth pursed, and added, “Take care to not let anyone see you with the ointment. If someone asks you why you are meeting me, give them another excuse.”

“I will.” Jongdae bowed and turned away. Yixing, finally able to breathe easier, made his way back to his quarters. 

Junmyeon was still on the bed when he returned, and at a single glance it was hard to tell if he were sleeping or not. “Junmyeon?”

“I see you had no luck,” Junmyeon murmured into his arm. “The wounds need to be washed.”

“They will be,” Yixing said. “I found no doctors willing to help, but the emissary from Mogryeon will be by soon. He has an ointment that will help you.”

Junmyeon visibly perked up. “Emissary Jongdae?”

“You know him?”

“No,” Junmyeon said. “Well, he has greeted me a few times when we crossed paths, but we have never exchanged more than a few words.”

Yixing hummed. “I see.” His eyes fell on Junmyeon’s back once more. “Does it hurt much?”

“Quite,” Junmyeon said. He shifted marginally on the bed and grimaced. “But it is bearable.”

Yixing frowned, but said nothing more. He instead busied himself with fetching a basin of water and some clean rags in preparation for Jongdae’s arrival.

He had little experience with cleansing wounds, but after asking for permission, he soaked one of the rags, wrought it, and then carefully dabbed Junmyeon’s skin with it. He stayed away from the worst wounds and instead focused on the sides and cleaning up the dried blood. 

Jongdae showed up a little later. He stared at Junmyeon’s back for a long moment, brows drawing together into an expression of disdain, before he procured a glass phial and a small earthenware jar from underneath the fabrics of his clothes. 

“The ointment and something to help alleviate the pain,” Jongdae explained when he noticed Yixing’s questioning look. “May I?”

Yixing left the bed and motioned for Jongdae to take his place. “Please.”

“First,” Jongdae said and held up the phial, “drink this. The effects will take a little time to work.”

Yixing took the phial, making a face when his nose caught a whiff of the smell, and crouched by the bed. He helped Junmyeon to it, who drank it without complaint, and then backed off to give Jongdae room to work as he took over cleaning the wounds. 

Junmyeon uttered a string of words in what Yixing recognised to be the language of Mogryeon, albeit he still floundered when it came to _understanding_ the words. Junmyeon had taught him some over the years, but nowhere near enough to follow the swift exchange of words between Junmyeon and Jongdae.

He _did_ catch what sounded like his name from Junmyeon’s lips twice, and he frowned towards Junmyeon but did not speak up. Yet.

When Jongdae was satisfied, he discarded the rag in the basin, the water now a reddish brown. He opened the jar, revealing a thick cream-like substance, scooped a good bit onto his fingers, and began to apply it to Junmyeon’s back. 

Another drop of his name by Junmyeon had Yixing interrupting their conversation with a dry remark of, “You _are_ in the presence of the first prince, I hope you realise. I would appreciate being a part of the conversation.”

Junmyeon said something under his breath in their language, earning a snort from Jongdae and a consequent raised eyebrow from Yixing, but switched back to Lián to say, “I was just making enquiries about home.”

 _Home_. Yixing wondered if Junmyeon yearned to be back on Mogryeon soil.

“The village Junmyeon is from is not far from the capital,” Jongdae said. Yixing remembered Junmyeon mentioning a small village, but not _where_ in Mogryeon. “I am from the capital myself, but I have been by the village a couple of times.”

“Were you part of the court?” Yixing asked, curious to know if that might be why Jongdae seemed so… casual around him. He was used to everyone – except his family, close friends, and Junmyeon – being more reverential in his presence.

Jongdae started to shake his head, but then he frowned. “Well, sort of. To prepare me for my role as emissary, I spent half a year in court being taught about courtesy and customs.” 

He had reached the worst of Junmyeon’s back, which was the middle where most of the lashes had landed, and he slowly, carefully, spread the ointment. Junmyeon, who had remained admirably stone-faced up until that point, allowed a grimace to distort his face. 

Yixing hummed. “Half a year, you say. I cannot tell whether that explains your behaviour or not.”

Jongdae glanced up from his work to look questioning at Yixing, but it was Junmyeon who opened his mouth to utter a string of words that had Jongdae nodding along.

“I see,” he said and smiled a little. “Would you rather I bow in fear, First Prince?”

Yixing was going to have Junmyeon teach him their language or he would go insane. “No.”

Silence broken only once by a noise of pain from Junmyeon reigned between them while Jongdae lathered Junmyeon’s wounds with the ointment. The jar was nearly empty when Jongdae sat back.

“All right,” he said, grabbing one of the two remaining clean rags to wipe off his hands, “I believe that will do. Stay in bed for a couple of hours and try to move as little as possible. I have another jar with me that I will leave with you. When you no longer can stay in bed, use the ointment and cover your wounds with bandages. It works like one handcrafted by the gods, so you should be right as rain soon enough.”

“Thank you,” Junmyeon said. _That_ , at least, Yixing had memorised. The words that followed he had not, unfortunately. 

“I will not be needing you for the rest of the day,” Yixing said, “so take the time to rest. I will be by later with supper.”

“All right,” Junmyeon murmured. He glanced towards Yixing. “Is Jongdae allowed to stay here for a while? I wish to know more about home.”

“He may,” Yixing said, meeting Jongdae’s gaze as he looked sideways towards him. He did not fully trust Jongdae yet, and perhaps it was a mistake to allow the emissary of a kingdom they had been at war with just a handful of years ago to stay and chat with his slave, but Yixing was a weak man who could deny Junmyeon practically nothing. He wondered if Junmyeon knew. 

“Thank you,” Junmyeon said, this time in Yixing’s language, and the soft smile he offered Yixing had the organs inside him bounce in joy. 

Yixing returned the smile, suspecting it looked much more mushy than he had intended, and turned to leave.

There were a few reports waiting for him in his bedchamber, and after he had read through them, he had time to steep in a hot bath while he pondered his options in regards to his father and council.

That cursed council.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #3: I first intended for the whipping session to end up in a barely-conscious Junmyeon in a lot of pain ‘cause I’m a sucker for a suffering Junmyeon, but alas, Google ruined that. Apparently a hundred lashes will, obviously, hurt, but it will be bearable and probably leave no scars, so I had to face the facts and behave, lol. THANK GOOGLE, JUNMYEON.
> 
> #4: This here, yeah? All of this was supposed to be backstory. Backstory! But I just couldn’t control myself, so uh. I kind of snatched the backstory and ran with it, and that’s how we ended up here. Whoops? For the 'backstory' part of the plot, there is still... I believe one slightly longer chapter left, or potentially two slightly shorter ones. Depends on my wordiness.
> 
> So. The prompt number was LT002; I recommend not looking it up if you want to be surprised, but hey, up to you. I don't know if the mods will reveal the full prompt at the, well, reveals, but if they do, that's how it is and it's the price I have to pay for being dumb.
> 
> And, Prompter, the gods know I had an idea that fit the actual prompt better at first. I just... well, yes, thought of too much backstory, in part due to your wishes, which ended up with me really, really wanting to write what led up to the prompt. So, here we are. With two thirds ish of the backstory and potentially another, uh, 15.000-30.000 words worth of, uh, extra? (Like, for real, I have an Excel sheet for the calendar I made up including national holidays, birthdays, religious events, etc; 10.000 words of notes; and a pages-long list of characters.) I'M SORRY. Part of the reason there's only this is because, uh, I kind of hit a... snag. I wrote myself into a kind of problem and I find it difficult to get out of it, and, well, at the time of writing this AN I am still struggling with that very problem. That, and work got busy, so whoop. I haven't written a lot this past month.
> 
> Uhhh. Well, I think that's it for notes. I might update later later as I remember Important Stuff I wanted to say.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed so far! If you have any questions, feel free to send them my way! I know some stuff is still left unanswered, but in due time, everything (errr, maybe) will make sense!
> 
> I love comments, too! ❤


End file.
